Origins

by L. J. Smith

  “Do you know what we are?” Damon asked bitterly.

  We locked eyes, and instantly I realized that I didn’t want to live like Katherine. I didn’t want to see the sunlight only with the aid of the ring on my finger. I didn’t want to always gaze at a human’s neck as if contemplating my next feeding. I didn’t want to live forever.

  I ducked down under the surface of the water and opened my eyes. The pond was dark and cool, just like the shack. If this was what death was, it wasn’t bad. It was peaceful. Quiet. There was no passion, but also no danger.

  I surfaced and pushed my hair off my face, my borrowed clothes hanging off my soaked limbs. Even though I knew what my fate was, I felt remarkably alive. “Then I’ll die.”

  Damon nodded, his eyes dull and listless. “There’s no life without Katherine.”

  I climbed out of the water and hugged my brother. His body felt warm, real. Damon briefly returned my embrace, then hugged his knees again, his gaze fixed on a spot far away from the water’s edge.

  “I want it done,” Damon said, standing up and walking farther away toward the quarry. I watched his retreating back, remembering the time when I was eight or nine that my father and I had gone buck hunting. It was right after my mother had died, and while Damon had immersed himself in schoolboy antics like gambling and riding horses, I’d clung to my father. One day, to cheer me up, Father took me to the woods with our rifles.

  We’d spent over an hour tracking a buck. Father and I headed deeper and deeper into the forest, watching the animal’s every move. Finally, we were in a spot where we saw the buck bowing down, eating from a berry bush.

  “Shoot,” Father murmured, guiding my rifle over my shoulder. I trembled as I kept my eye on the deer and reached for the trigger. But at the moment I released the trigger, a baby deer scampered into the field. The buck sprinted away, and the bullet hit the fawn in the belly. Its wobbly legs crumpled beneath it, and it fell to the ground.

  I’d run to try to help it, but Father had stopped me, holding on to my shoulder.

  “Animals know when it’s time to die. Let’s at least allow it the peace to do it alone,” Father said, forcibly marching me away. I’d wailed, but he was relentless. Now, watching Damon, I understood. Damon was the same way.

  “Good-bye, brother,” I whispered.

  30

  Though Damon wanted to die alone, I had unfinished business to attend to. I made my way from the quarry and began to walk back to the estate. The woods smelled like smoke, and the leaves were starting to turn. They crunched under the worn boots I had on my feet, and I remembered all the times Damon and I had played hide-and-seek as children. I wondered if he had any regrets, or if he felt as empty as I did. I wondered if we’d see each other in Heaven, being as we were. I walked toward the house. The carriage house was charred and burned, its beams exposed like a skeleton. Several of the statues around the labyrinth were broken, and torches and debris littered the once-lush lawn. But the porch light at the main house was on, and a buggy stood at attention beneath the portico.

  I walked around the back and heard voices coming from the porch. Immediately, I dove under the hedges. Hidden by the leaves, I crawled on my hands and knees against the wall until I came to the bay window that looked into the porch. Peering in, I made out the shadow of my father. A single candle cast weak beams of light around the room, and I noticed that Alfred wasn’t in his normal spot sitting at the door, ready to instantly greet guests. I wondered if any of the servants had been killed.

  “More brandy, Jonathan? Laced with vervain. Not that we need to worry anymore,” Father said, his words floating out the door.

  “Thank you, Giuseppe. And thank you for having me here. I realize you have much on your mind,” answered Jonathan somberly, as he accepted the tumbler. I saw the concern etched on Jonathan’s face, and my heart went out to him for the terrible truth he’d had to learn about Pearl.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Father said, waving off the thought. “But it’s important that we end this sad chapter of our town’s history. It is the one thing I want to do for my sons. After all, I do not want the Salvatore legacy to be that of demon sympathizers.” Father cleared his throat. “So the battle of Willow Creek happened when a group of Union insurgents mounted an attack on the Confederate camp,” he began in his sonorous baritone voice, as if telling a story.

  “And Stefan and Damon hid out in the woods to see if they could find any rogue soldiers, and at that point …,” Jonathan continued.

  “At that point they were tragically killed, just like the twenty-three other civilians who died for their country and their beliefs. It was a Confederate victory, but it came at the cost of innocent lives,” Father said, raising his voice as if to make himself believe the story he was weaving.

  “Yes. And I’ll speak with the Hagertys about creating a monument. Something to acknowledge this terrible period in our town’s history,” Jonathan murmured.

  I raised myself up on my knees, peeking through a spot at the corner of the window. I saw Father nodding in satisfaction, and cold seeped through my veins. So this was the legacy of my death—that I was killed by a band of degenerate soldiers. Now I knew I needed to speak to Father more than ever. He needed to hear the whole truth, to know that Damon and I weren’t sympathizers, to know that the problem could have been cured without so much bloodshed and violence.

  “But Giuseppe … ?” Jonathan asked, taking a long drink from his tumbler.

  “Yes, Jonathan?”

  “It is a triumphant moment in our town’s history. The vampires are destroyed, and their bodies will turn to dust. We rid the town of the scourge, and thanks to the burning of the church, it will never come back. There were hard choices and heroism, but we won. That is your legacy,” Jonathan said as he slammed his ledger closed with a definitive thump.

  Father nodded and drained his own tumbler, then stood up. “Thank you,” he said, holding out his hand. I watched as the two men shook hands, then watched as Jonathan disappeared into the shadows of the house. A moment later, I heard his carriage being hitched and the horses riding away. I crawled to the edge of the hedgerow. I stood up, my knees creaking, and walked through the door and into the house that was once mine.

  31

  I crept through the house, cringing every time my foot hit a loose floorboard or a creaky corner. From the light at the far end of the house, I could tell Father had left the sitting room and was already in his study, no doubt writing down the record he and Jonathan had concocted in his own journal. I stood in the door frame and watched him for a moment. His hair was snow-white, and I saw age spots on his hands. Despite the lies I’d heard earlier, my heart went out to him. Here was a man who’d never known an easy life and who, after burying a wife, now had to bury two sons.

  I took a step toward him, and Father’s head jerked upward.

  “Dear God …,” he said, dropping his pen to the floor with a clatter.

  “Father,” I said, holding out my hands to him. He stood up, his eyes darting wildly.

  “It’s okay,” I said gently. “I just want to talk with you.”

  “You’re dead, Stefan,” Father said slowly, still gaping at me.

  I shook my head. “Whatever you think of Damon and me, you have to know that we didn’t betray you.”

  The fear on Father’s face abruptly turned to fury. “You did betray me. Not only did you betray me, you betrayed the whole town. You should be dead, after the way you’ve shamed me.”

  I watched him, anger rising up inside me. “Even in our death, you feel only shame?” I asked. It was something Damon would say, and in a way, I felt his presence beside me. I was doing this for him. I was doing it for both of us, so that at least we’d die with truth on our side.

  But Father was barely listening. Instead, he was staring at me. “You’re one of them now. Isn’t that right, Stefan?” Father said, backing away from me, slowly, as if I were about to lunge and attack him.

  “No. No. I�
��ll never be one of them.” I shook my head, hoping against hope that Father would believe me.

  “But you are. I watched you bleed and take your last breath. I left you for dead. And now I see you here. You are one of them,” Father said, his back now against the brick wall.

  “You saw me get shot?” I asked in confusion. I remembered the voices. The chaos. Vampire being yelled over and over again in the darkness. Feeling Noah pull me off Damon. Everything fading to black.

  “I pulled the trigger myself. I pulled it on you, and I pulled it on Damon. And apparently it wasn’t enough,” Father said. “Now I need to finish the job,” he said, his voice as cold as ice.

  “You killed your own sons?” I asked, anger of my own coursing through my veins.

  Father stepped toward me menacingly, and even though he thought I was a monster, I was the one who felt fear. “You were both dead to me as soon as you sided with the vampires. And now, to come in here and ask forgiveness, as if what you did could be excused with an I’m sorry. No. No.” Father stepped away from his desk and walked toward me, his eyes still darting to the left and the right, except that now it was as if he were the hunter, rather than a hunted animal. “You know, it’s a blessing your mother died before she could see what a disgrace you’ve become.”

  “I haven’t turned yet. I don’t want to. I came to say good-bye. I’m going to die, Father. You did what you set out to do. You killed me,” I said. Tears sprang from my eyes. “It didn’t have to be this way, Father. That’s what you and Jonathan Gilbert should write in your false history, that it didn’t have to be this way.”

  “This is the way it has to be,” Father said, lunging for a cane that he kept in a large vase in the corner of the room. Swiftly, he broke it in two on the floor and held the long, jagged end out toward me.

  Quickly, without thinking, I sidestepped Father and yanked his free arm back, sending him tumbling sideways against the brick wall.

  Father screamed in anguish as he hit the floor. And then I saw it. The stake was protruding from his stomach, blood spurting in all directions. I blanched, feeling my stomach rise to my chest and bile fill my throat.

  “Father!” I rushed over to him and bent down. “I didn’t mean to. Father …,” I gasped. I grabbed the stake and yanked it out of his abdomen. Father shrieked, and immediately blood gushed like a geyser from the wound. I watched, horrified, but also entranced. The blood was so red, so deep, so beautiful. It was as if it were calling to me. It was as if I’d die that second if I didn’t have the blood. And so, unbidden, I moved my hand to the wound and brought my cupped hand to my lips, tasting the liquid as it touched my gums, my tongue, and my throat.

  “Get away from me!” Father hoarsely whispered, pushing himself away until his entire back was pressed against the wall. He scratched my hand in an effort to bat it away from the wound, then slumped against the wall, his eyes closing.

  “I …,” I began, but then felt a shooting, stabbing pain in my mouth. It was worse than what I remembered about being shot. It was a feeling of tightness, followed by the sensation of a million needles sticking into my flesh.

  “Get away …,” Father breathed, covering his face with his hands as he struggled for air. I pulled my own hands from my mouth and ran my fingers over my teeth, which had become sharp and pointed. Then I realized: I was one of them now.

  “Father, drink from me. I can save you!” I said urgently, reaching down and pulling him up to a sitting position against the wall. I took my wrist and brought it to my mouth, allowing my newly knife-sharp teeth to easily rip the skin. I flinched, then held the wound toward Father, who backed away, blood continuing to gush from his wound.

  “I can fix you. If you drink this blood, it will heal your wounds. Please?” I begged, looking into Father’s eyes.

  “I’d rather die,” Father pronounced. A moment later his eyes fluttered shut and slumped back on the floor, a pool of blood forming around his body. I placed my hand on his heart, feeling it slow until it stopped.

  32

  I turned my back to the estate and began walking, then running, on the dirt road into town. Somehow, I felt that my feet barely touched the ground. I ran faster and faster, but my breath stayed the same. I felt that I could run like this forever, and I wanted to, because every step was taking me farther and farther away from the horrors I’d witnessed.

  I tried not to think, tried to block the memories from my mind. Instead I focused on the light touch of the earth as I quickly placed one foot in front of the other. I noticed that even in the darkness, I could see the way the mist shimmered on the few leaves that still clung to the trees. I could hear the breath of squirrels and rabbits as they scampered through the forest. I smelled iron everywhere.

  The dirt road changed into cobblestone as I entered town. Getting to town seemed to have taken no time at all, though normally I traversed the same distance in no less than an hour. I slowed to a stop. My eyes stung as I glanced slowly from left to right. The town square looked different somehow. Insects crawled in the dirt between the cobblestones. Paint flaked off the walls of the Lockwood mansion, though it had been built only a few years ago. There was disrepair and decay in everything.

  Most pervasive was the smell of vervain. It was everywhere. But instead of being vaguely pleasant, the scent was all-consuming and made me feel dizzy and nauseated. The only thing that countered the cloying scent was the heady smell of iron.

  I inhaled deeply, suddenly knowing that the only remedy against the vervain-induced weakness was in that scent. Every fiber of my body screamed that I had to find the source of it, had to nourish myself. I looked around, hungrily, my eyes rapidly scanning from the saloon down the street to the market at the end of the block. Nothing.

  I sniffed the air again, and realized that the scent—the glorious, awful, damning scent—was coming closer. I whirled around and sucked in my breath as I saw Alice, the pretty young barmaid from the tavern, walking down the street. She was humming to herself and walking unevenly, no doubt because she’d sampled some of the whiskey she’d been serving all night. Her hair was a red flame against her pale skin. She smelled warm and sweet, like iron and wood smoke and tobacco.

  She was the remedy.

  I stole into the shadows of the trees that flanked the street. I was shocked by how loud she was. Her humming, her breathing, each uneven footfall registered in my ear, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t waking up everyone in town.

  Finally, she passed by, her curves close enough to touch. I reached out, grabbing her by her hips. She gasped.

  “Alice,” I said, my voice echoing hollowly in my ears. “It’s Stefan.”

  “Stefan Salvatore?” she said, her puzzlement quickly turning to fear. She trembled. “B-but you’re dead.”

  I could smell the whiskey on her breath, could see her pale neck, with blue veins running beneath her skin, and practically swooned. But I didn’t touch her with my teeth. Not yet. I savored the feeling of her in my arms, the sweet relief that what I’d spent the last moments insatiably craving was right in my hands.

  “Shhh …,” I murmured. “Everything will be all right.”

  I allowed my lips to graze her white skin, marveling at how sweet and fragrant it was. The anticipation was exquisite. Then, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I curled my lips and plunged my teeth into her neck. Her blood rushed against my teeth, my gums, spurting into my body, bringing with it warmth and strength and life. I sucked hungrily, pausing only when Alice went limp in my arms and her heartbeat slowed to a dull thud. I wiped my mouth and looked down at her unconscious body, admiring my handiwork: two neat holes in her neck, just a few centimeters in diameter.

  She wasn’t dead yet, but I knew she would be soon.

  I slung Alice over my shoulder, barely feeling the weight and barely feeling my feet hit the ground as I ran through town, into the woods, and back to the quarry.

  33

  Pale moonlight danced over Alice’s bright hair
as I rushed toward the shack. I ran my tongue over my still-sharp fangs, reliving the sensation of my teeth pressing into her pliant, yielding neck.

  “You’re a monster,” a voice somewhere in my mind whispered. But in the cloak of darkness, with Alice’s blood coursing through my veins, the words held no meaning and were accompanied by no sting of guilt.

  I burst into the shack. It was quiet, but the fire was well-tended and burned brightly. I watched the flames, momentarily entranced by the violets, blacks, blues, and even greens within. Then I heard a faint breath in the corner of the room.

  “Damon?” I called, my voice echoing so loudly against the rough-hewn beams that I winced. I was still in hunting mode.

  “Brother?”

  I made out a figure hunched under a blanket. I observed Damon from a distance, as if I were a stranger. His dark hair was matted to his neck, and he had streaks of grime along his face. His lips were chapped, his eyes bloodshot. The air around him smelled acrid—like death.

  “Get up!” I said roughly, dropping Alice to the ground. Her almost-lifeless body fell heavily. Her red hair was matted with blood, and her eyes were half closed. Blood pooled around the two neat holes where I’d bitten her. I licked my lips but forced myself to leave the rest of her for Damon.

  “What? What have you …” Damon’s gaze shifted from Alice to me, then back to Alice. “You fed?” he asked, shrinking even farther into the corner and covering his eyes with his hands, as if he could somehow erase the image.

  “I brought her for you. Damon, you need to drink,” I urged, kneeling down next to him.

  Damon shook his head. “No. No,” he rasped, his breath labored as he drew nearer to death.